


Rituals In Strange Places

by Crowley_Is_My_Copilot



Series: Dark Harlan [1]
Category: Justified
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Humor, demon vs large words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowley_Is_My_Copilot/pseuds/Crowley_Is_My_Copilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It can be hard for a demon to find a good place to work a little blood magic. Even harder when the local crime boss interrupts you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rituals In Strange Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andy - who gave voice to Boyd](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=andy+-+who+gave+voice+to+Boyd).



> Based on a RP over a year in the working. Feedback is always welcome.

Certain rituals required specific things and while Mic had become proficient at using items picked up from dingy gas stations, there was no real way to fudge the light of a full moon. She knew. She had tried both the cheap motel desk lamp and the TV to less than stellar results.

That was why she was perched on the back stairs of the motel, saree tucked up under her legs, ignoring the noises coming from the bar next store and muttering a mix of Latin and Hindi under her breath. She titled the silver bowl watching the blood slosh within, sighed, and carefully righted it again. A voice broke her concentration. 

“Is this some sorta ritual?”

Glancing up, she watched the man walk - more like saunter - over and lean against the railing. Her fingers tightened around the cheap pocket knife. It had a wolf carved into the handle. She didn’t answer.

“'Cause I’m failing to see either the humor or the ecclesiastical power of it all.”

Dark brows knitted together as she considered him, considered how to answer. Seeing as she hadn’t quite understood what he was saying, it might prove difficult.

“If you keep talking, you’ll see the humor in it. Well. If you can talk with a slit throat.” It probably wasn’t the wisest move, threatening a random stranger, but she had never been the wisest. A grin broke out across his face.

"Theoretically? Might have to slot that in the improbable category- but if we are alludin' to dramatic swing of the thurible, well then who knows! Haven't talked outta a sliced jugular before as I was hopin' it make it to Sunday with all my bits intact, if it's too much too ask." 

When he had finished speaking, her mouth was hanging open. In her head, she counted to five as she gestured at him, knife in hand, pointing it at his chest.

“You’re not helping your case here.” A beat and she gave into her curiosity. “What’s a thurible?”

He grinned at her again and she thought she might have been able to use the light of his teeth to power her ritual. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the tips of his fingers to the edge of the blade.

"It's used in churches during certain ceremonies, normally they stuff it to the gills with communion incense in hopes of purification. Not exactly a clever use of the noun, but, hey, it seemed concise at the time." 

“That’s funny,” she said, sounding as though she didn’t get the joke. She lowered the knife, tapping it against her thigh. “This isn’t purification, more like the opposite, _and_ you talk too much. I still might kill you for that.”

“The opposite? Well, hell, if you’re looking for damnation, we have all manner of it ‘round here!” He eyed the bowl like he was seeing its contents for the first time. “You’re not the only one to threaten that but as this is a special occasion with the corruption n’all, I’ll keep the volume down to a whisper. Just seems like an odd location, don’t you think?”

Her mouth opened and closed. She thought she was getting a headache. It had been over six hundred years and Mic was almost certain she never had a headache before. Motion quick and fluid, she pressed the knife against his cheek and withdrew it, leaving behind a thin line no worse than a shaving nick.

“If this is a whisper, I don’t want to hear screaming. Who are you?”

That did the trick of wiping the grin off his face and the next time he spoke, Mic was surprised at how soft his voice managed to be. He touched at his cheek, fingers glistening wet in the dim street lamp.

“Boyd Crowder. Clearly I’m intruding on some sort of pagan ritual conducted on motel stairwells unless this is your typical Friday night shindig...”

“ **Don’t**. Move.”

The name was familiar. Mic traveled from town to town, staying only long enough to where she became superficially familiar with the intricacies of it. She hadn’t been in Harlan long, no, but she  _had_ heard his name. Normally spoken in the same tone reserved for unexpected car trouble and bad storms.

That wasn’t the reason she had stopped him, however. A glint of moonlight had caught on the blood in the bowl and she would lose it if she delayed. Speaking a few words of Latin, the blood began to boil as if from an unseen heat source, and she tilted her head, a calm look crossing her face and softening her features even as her once brown eyes filled with black. It lasted barely fifteen seconds and whatever voice had been speaking in her mind quieted. 

Now it was his turn to let his mouth go slack. His hands slid into his pockets, dropping at his hip to get a better glimpse of the strangeness before him. It occurred to him that he might be into something here that even he didn’t understand. The smart thing would be to turn and flee, perhaps come back with a Bible and real or hypothetical pitchforks and drive the evil out. He almost did just that then she was speaking again, her accent thick.

“Normally my Fridays have a little less blood and more pizza and pay-per-view movies. And this? More like a phone call to Hell.”

“See, now you’re speaking my language, what with the greasy food and cable pay-per-view, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever had the occasion to make a phone call to Hell though I’m sure some around here would argue differently,” he said, banter coming back to him quickly. He almost quirked a smile. It was easy to pretend he was just humoring her. “Normally the reception is shit for starters so I’m surprised you could reach the Pit.”

“--Right.” She stood, letting the silk of her skirt fall around her and looked down at him. The smart thing to do would be kill him. It would be easy, put a red line across his throat this time but something stopped her. “Do you have any idea what just happened here,  _what_ I am?”

“Well, ma’am.” He drew out the words more than she thought possible. “I have what you might call an active imagination so I’d say I have a pretty good idea.”

“You’re still standing here.”

“That I am.”

“Alright.” Kneeling, she picked up the bowl, not caring if her fingers dipped into the blood as she held the edge, and slipped the knife into the folds of her skirt with her free hand. When she straightened, she fixed him with a look somewhere between annoyance, confusion, and curiosity of her own. “Good night, Boyd Crowder.”

She started up the stairs.

“I never got your name,” he called after her, “or is there some rule that says you can’t give that out.”

She stopped, one foot on the second floor landing. She looked back and immediately knew it was a mistake.

“You can call me Mic.”


End file.
